


Yippee-ki-yay, motherfu—

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, F/M, Forced Proximity, Friends to Lovers, Hermione Granger Can Take Care of Herself, Humor and Fluff, Mostly Just Fluff and Die Hard, Sexual Content, Some Die Hard References, There Isn’t Any Plot Here, Travel at Christmas, bed sharing, bodyguard trope, holiday party, why am i like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21922297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: Someone has threatened Hermione Granger’s life. In an effort to save her, Harry Potter whisks her away to New York City at Christmas, much to Hermione’s annoyance.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 17
Kudos: 273
Collections: Harmony Advent Collection 2019





	Yippee-ki-yay, motherfu—

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Harmony & Co Advent 2019. Thank you eternally to the admin of the group who put this on for the second year in a row. It’s such a fun event to write for! Happy Christmas, everyone! I’m sorry for whatever this is.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own anything recognizable, including the Harry Potter universe and/or the Die Hard references.

“It’s utterly ridiculous.”

Hermione stomped around her bedroom, tossing sensible heels and comfortable jeans into an enlarged luggage case. Her lips tugged down in a frown and her dark eyes were narrowed at every article of clothing she ripped from her wardrobe.

She had to be  _ guarded _ , they said. For her own  _ protection _ . Of all the belittling things she’d ever heard.  _ This  _ took the biscuit.

“Hermione.” She didn’t bother to look at her best friend; didn’t want to see that earnest gleam radiating from his eyes. He huffed and reached out to her, grasping her elbow in his hand. “Someone threatened your  _ life _ . It’s not ridiculous that you’re being protected.”

“ _ I _ am a capable witch, in case you’ve forgotten,” Hermione argued as she yanked her elbow from his hand.

Harry’s head fell and his shoulders rose with a heavy sigh. “Of course I haven’t forgotten. But I do care about your safety. You’re my best friend, in case  _ you’ve _ forgotten.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I don’t want to be a babysitter.”

Hermione glared at him, pausing in her rage-packing to make sure he could feel every facet of the ire she was directing towards him. “You do understand that I can take care of myself, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And you do understand that  _ if _ someone is mad enough to try and assassinate me on Christmas, I’ll have no qualms with placing six feet of dirt between them and myself?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, fingers itching to summon her wand and really show Harry how she excelled at dueling. Alas, she kept her tetchy gaze locked on him. Harry seemed to weigh his words before speaking, slowly and with measured precision.

“I would prefer that we locked the bastard in Azkaban on charges of attempted murder.” Harry didn’t back down, didn’t shrink under the very pointed looks she pinned him with.

Heaving a sigh, Hermione rolled her neck until the bone popped, and let her arms fall to her sides. “Fine. But I’m not happy about all this. Especially at Christmas time — I had plans this year.”

“You never have plans for Christmas.” He smiled and began to help her pack away her things into the obviously — illegally — enchanted luggage. “You watch  _ Die Hard _ and drink way too much elfish wine.”

“And you only know that because you’re sat next to me with a bottle of firewhiskey,” Hermione replied dryly, pulling her wand from her robes and sealing the luggage with a swishy spell.

“At least we’ll be together again for Christmas this year, then.”

Hermione could see the triumph in his ridiculous, pleased smile. If she really wanted, she’d zap him with a stunner and apparate away so that he couldn’t find her. As if he knew what she was thinking, Harry lifted a brow and stuffed his hands into his pockets. His face clearly said, ‘Don’t even think about it.’

She grumbled and under her breath she whispered, “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfu—” 

“Merlin’s pants.” Harry shook his head and turned from the room without another word.

“—cker.” 

* * *

  
  


It seemed silly to run away from England rather than offer herself up as bait. Harry disagreed.

“They’ll sort out the assassin,” he promised her as they walked in to the little hotel that they’d call home for the foreseeable future. “All channels in and out of England will be monitored, and the article on your big Christmas holiday in America is all over the front pages of  _ The Daily Prophet _ and  _ The Quibbler _ . He’ll try to get to you, but they’ll catch him before he even leaves the island.”

“It seems an awful lot of faff for something we could sort out with a few Disillusionment Charms.”

Hermione’s heels clicked on the tiled foyer as she approached the front desk. She glanced at the name tag the receptionist wore — Becky — and offered the young girl a pleasant, if not forced, smile.

“Welcome!” Oh, she was a bubbly sort with a perfectly white and straight smile, and too-long manicured nails that clicked over her keyboard. “Do you have a reservation?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but Harry inserted himself and thrust his identification towards the woman. “Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. Two rooms—”

“Ah.” Hot pink polish coated the woman’s index nail as she flashed them an apologetic smile. “There’s been a little SNAFU.”

“A what?” Hermione’s hands moved to her hips, an automatic response to any change of plans she’d ever experienced. Somehow, she already knew the words that would leave Becky’s mouth before she’d even uttered them.

“It’s New York at Christmas,” Becky explained, a nervous laugh fluttering from her lips. “We’ve had to rearrange some rooms. Your assistant confirmed it would be okay for us to move you into one room together. Is that not…?”

“My assistant?” Hermione asked, annoyance slipping through her tone before she could quelch it. “My assistant is a—”

“It’s fine,” Harry said quickly, thrusting a muggle credit card at Becky and giving her a tight smile. “One room is fine. We can just sleep in different beds and—”

“Um,  _ actually _ .” Becky bit her lip, but tried to smile as if it didn’t make her appear absolutely mental.

Hermione leveled her with a glare and huffed. “If you’re about to tell me that there’s only  _ one  _ bed in this  _ one  _ room—”

“It’s  _ fine _ .” Harry placed his hand on the small of her back and forced an even bigger smile at the receptionist. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “It’s not as if we’ve never shared a bed before.”

Well, that certainly shut her up. Her mind whirred all the way back to the Forest of Dean where they’d spent night after night on a too-small bed beside one another. Not once had Harry’s hands drifted towards her person. Still, that was so long ago with a war raging around them and her hormones directed entirely at the wrong bloke. Now, though? Well, she’d seen Harry walk about his flat in nothing but a towel, and she’d be mad not to notice the darkened looks he’d given her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Hermione opened her mouth, but Harry’s fingers curled into the back of her shirt.

“Be nice, would you?” Harry’s laugh in her ear coiled something pleasant in her belly before she even had the chance to ask for Becky’s manager.

Hermione lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. “You didn’t bring me along for my charming personality.”

* * *

  
  


“C’mon, Hermione,” Harry sat on the edge of their one bed with his hands on his knees and his eyes following her as she paced around the room. “The hotel puts this on once a year — it’ll be fun!”

“Fun?” Hermione chewed on a fingernail and continued to burn a hole in the carpet. “I’m thousands of miles from home, it’s snowing like a damn blizzard outside, tomorrow is Christmas, and someone is threatening to murder me. What about all of that is  _ fun _ to you?”

“I get to spend the holiday with my favorite person.” He shrugged and then she felt like utter shite.

She stopped her pacing and turned to him, guilty frown laid bare before him. “You really want to go to this thing downstairs?”

Harry gave her a sharp nod. “It’s Christmas Eve. Let’s have a drink and maybe some hors d'oeuvres. Dance a little?”

“While we wait for the Ministry to catch the death eater that’s trying to kill me?”

“Exactly.” His face lit up in a gigantic grin. “We’ll transfigure our clothes and then when we get back to the room, we’ll watch Die Hard and go to sleep.”

“You had me at Die Hard.”

Harry pulled his wand and transfigured her frumpy little travel outfit into a nice cocktail dress and heels. At her stunned expression that was quickly morphing into one of regret for agreeing to this, he grinned. “Trust me, I’ve been your friend for eleven years.”

“That’s not even an accurate quote,” she groused and then turned to stomp from the room with Harry trailing behind her, clothes transforming along the way.

* * *

  
  


The holiday party in the hotel lounge was, by all accounts, extremely muggle. There were no fairy lights, no falling snowflakes from an enchanted ceiling, and no rogue mistletoe popping up at unfortunate moments. It was incredibly normal; women in cocktail dresses, men in suits, and stationary lights on an overdecorated Christmas tree. The best thing about the party were the fruity drinks that passed by them — carried by a waitstaff and not floating of their own accord.

Hermione stood just to the side of the Christmas tree, a martini glass in hand with a cranberry concoction in hand, and nervous eyes flickering around the room.

“You haven’t heard from Kingsley?” she asked quietly, leaning into Harry’s warm body as he sipped at his bottle of beer.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Maybe they’re waiting until you get back.”

“Or, perhaps they slipped through security and they’re here now.”

As her words settled over them both, silence fell. They sipped their drinks quietly and watched the mingling crowd around them. Hermione watched for anything unusual and she knew that the auror at her side was doing the same. Where her best friend was normally at ease by her side, her auror bodyguard was stiff and calculating, watching the room as if a death eater would jump out at them at any moment.

“Why don’t we try to enjoy ourselves, Harry?” Hermione asked him before draining her drink. “A watched cauldron never bubbles.”

With a contentious flick of his brow, Harry vanished his drink with a wave of his hand. Before Hermione could scold him for showing off magic in a dense muggle area, he grabbed her by the hand and swept her towards the makeshift dance floor. By the time the orchestral music grew louder, she was lost to her own girlish giggles as she was pulled into Harry’s chest and gently swayed from side to side.

“What are you doing?” She asked him, not quite with the scorn she’d been aiming to use.

He grinned at her, and locked his hands around her waist. “Enjoying myself.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around Harry’s neck and stepped in time to his movements. He wasn’t half bad at dancing, which always surprised her despite how often they found themselves doing it. His warm breath in her ear, the steady thrum of his heart, and the way his thumbs rubbed concentric circles on the small of her back left Hermione quite breathless as she laid her head against his chest.

“This isn’t so bad,” she found herself mumbling into his suit, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. She pulled her head back to look into his eyes. Bright, shining green stared back at her as his breath fanned her face.

“Mm,” he agreed, “if this is their idea of Christmas, I’ve got to be here for New Years.”

Three songs and two drinks later, Hermione was more relaxed than she’d been in an age. Harry held her closer still, and she felt as if she could fall asleep upright and swaying to the gentle instrumental Christmas music that flowed through the lounge.

Something was hot against her thigh, and she jumped back from Harry. Instantly pulled from her comfort, they both hissed at the sensation as Harry began padding down his pocket. He pulled a small, golden coin from it and bounced it from hand to hand as it burned white hot.

“It’s the Ministry,” he whispered, following Hermione as she led him from the dance floor. “They’ve caught him. Scabior — the snatcher. He was traveling by portkey to New York.”

“Scabior?” Hermione blinked. It wasn’t a name she’d thought about when thinking through the many number of wizards who may want her dead. “And he’s it? You don’t think he’s working with anyone else?”

“Doesn’t look like it.” Harry pocketed his coin again. “They’re going to want us back home for questioning. Let’s go to bed and we’ll grab a portkey in the morning.”

Even as they made their way to the lift, with Harry’s hand guiding her through the crowd of people, Hermione’s brain whirred around the word ‘bed’. One bed. Solitary sleeper. With Harry.

* * *

“Is that how you sleep now?”

Hermione’s eyes held firm to his bare chest, not daring to dip further down where he was only in his boxers. The man had zero self esteem issues, and as far as Hermione was concerned, he’d had no reason to have them anyway. Harry was a fit auror, shadows and edges and hard planes made up the landscape of his torso.

“It is,” he chuckled as he pulled the corner of the duvet over so that he could slip into the bed. “It’s not going to be a problem, right?”

She gulped and then glanced down at her own sleepwear. It wasn’t her fault; Hermione had thought she’d be sleeping alone in the comfort of her own room. A pair of novelty Gryffindor sleeper shorts and matching camisole were normal pyjamas. But, the way that Harry’s eyes darkened as they blazed a trail from her bare feet to her blushing face nearly made her dive for her wand to transfigure the clothing into something more appropriate for bed sharing.

“N-no, it’s fine,” she lied and stepped carefully to the bed as if one sudden movement was going to render her entirely starkers. “Just… maybe we should put pillows between us. Make sure that this is entirely above the board, professionally speaking.”

Harry climbed into his side of the bed and arrange himself on his side so that he was facing her. His eyes sparkled and a grin toyed at his lips. “Do you not think you can keep your hands to yourself?”

Heat flooded her cheeks once again and she huffed as she, too, got into bed and swathed herself in the blankets so that her body was no longer on display.

“Only you can drive someone this crazy.”

She could hear his answering grin as if he’d spoken it aloud.

* * *

In her groggy state of mind, whether from the deepest sleep she’d had in months or from the several cranberry martinis she’d sucked down at the Christmas party, Hermione reached out to the warmth radiating at her side. It wasn’t until she felt it  _ breathe _ that she remembered who was in the bed with her and how close they were and exactly what they were wearing, which was pretty much fuck all.

Her eyes snapped open and met his stare. A breath left him in a rush and he traced his bottom lip with his tongue, which her traitorous eyes followed as something coiled in her belly. Ah, bollocks; she’d known this was a bad idea.

Harry lifted his head and rested it in the palm of his hand, angling his chin so that he was looking down at her. She was aware that her hair had taken over the entirety of her pillow, that she’d kicked off the blankets from her body, and that at some point in her sleep, the little Gryffindor camisole she’d been wearing slid up her stomach revealing an expanse of skin to Harry’s wondering eyes.

“My eyes are up here, Potter,” Hermione whispered in a sleepy voice, as she withdrew her hand from his chest and tried like hell to pretend that she wasn’t trying to feel her friend up while they slept.

“I’m aware.” His tone was playful, and she wanted to hide under the duvet until the light of day because it was doing ridiculous things to her insides. Harry’s free hand shot out and pulled her back towards him, placing her hand over his heart, which hammered against her palm. “I was looking precisely where I’d wanted to look.”

Heat rushed directly to her knickers, and she was sure that her cheeks were the color of the martinis she had been drinking earlier. She only managed a strangled “oh” in response.

“You’re really fucking beautiful, Hermione.” His hand left hers and trailed softly up her arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “Even with all your frumpy, Ministry robes on, I’ve known the fit body you kept underneath.”

“This isn’t a good idea.” Though, Hermione made no move away from him. Instead, her eyes were locked on his and need began to flood her every nerve.

“Isn’t it?” He was closer; she almost had to cross her eyes to keep him in focus. “I saw you looking at me earlier. You like what you see.”

She couldn’t very well lie, and so Hermione remained silent.

“I’d very much like to kiss you,” he murmured, their lips nearly touching anyway.

“It would change everything,” she replied quietly, her fingers curling into his chest.

“I know.”

“Well then.” Hermione closed her eyes for a brief moment, and when she opened them again she held a small smile. “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfu—”

Harry’s lips crashed into hers and wasted no time at all demanding more. She was on her back and under his weight in the flash of a moment, his hands buried in her hair and his erection pressing sinfully against her wet Gryffindor shorts. He applied just the right pressure against her scalp to encourage her neck to arch, and then he left her lips to nibble a trail down the expanse of her throat, paying particularly close attention to the spot that made her moan his name.

His hips pressed into hers — hard, three times before she begged him for more. The length of him moved deliciously against her and Hermione dug her short nails into the muscles of his back, as his teeth dragged the camisole down and exposed her pebbled nipples to him.

“Harry,” she whined his name, a plea that seemed to fall on deaf ears. He slid his teeth against her nipple and then engulfed it with his lips. The deep moan of appreciation he rewarded her with when she bucked against his hips nearly made her come right then.

He moved from her chest and brought his mouth to hers again, taking only a second to vanish their clothes with his hand — impressive magic that dampened her knickers further. Nestled between her thighs, lined up perfectly, Harry stared into her eyes, waiting for her to say no.

She didn’t.

Instead, her heels found the flesh of his arse and Hermione encouraged him to move. He slid into her, allowed her to adjust to his size, and then buried his face into the crook of her neck as he muttered so many filthy things she could hardly keep up.

Even when she clenched around him, her nails creating crescents in his skin, he didn’t let up. His teeth nipped at her pulse point and thrust harder until he finally spent himself inside of her.

Their combined heavy breathing filled the space around them. Hermione’s legs were jelly and Harry’s dead weight on top of her was as uncomfortable, but she refused to make him move. After several minutes, he lifted himself onto his elbows and planted a slow, soft kiss on her lips.

Harry finally rolled off to the side and dragged her body along with his. When she settled her head against his chest and steadied her breathing to the thud of his heart, Harry ran his fingers through her hair and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“What was it that you said to me earlier?” he asked, the ghost of a laugh lacing his words. “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfu—”

Hermione cut him off with a desperate kiss to his lips, both of them falling into contented laughter before diving in for round two.


End file.
